Fitzwilliam Darcy: Former Child Star
by Marshie12
Summary: Fitz Darcy has spent his entire life remebering the days of his hit television series. This is the tale of his trip back to the top and the girl that leads his way. Another shortie.
1. Chapter 1

_A new story! I think sometimes that I enjoy torturing myself. I'm now writing four stories at once. Why? I really don't know. I was sitting at work, and this was coming at me full-force, so I figured I'd give it a go. Tell me what you think. Darcy may come across as a bit of a prick, but keep in mind that he's emotionally stunted and will develop later. This is another parody, it's meant to be lighthearted. _

_Ok. May you have fun._

* * *

_**Fitzwilliam Darcy: Former Child Star**_

_Chapter One: "In Need of Assistance"_

"Fitz Darcy! You are a psychopath. I quit!"

"That's good because you're probably the worst assistant ever," I shouted back at the domineering Asian girl in front of me. She sneered at me and didn't bother with another word before she threw her hefty handfuls of clothing onto the floor and stomped away.

I reminded myself to breathe. I mean… it could have been much worse. When my last assistant quit he punched my in the jaw while I was sitting in my living room. Kimberly was incompetent anyway. What did I care if she quit? In fact it was probably a good thing… saved me from having to fire her.

I looked down at the pile of clothes by my feet. Now who was going to pick those up? I looked around the crowded LA boutique. It was disgustingly full of nobodies. I was having vivid nightmares of what it must be like at The Gap.

"Miss," I said, holding out my hand like Kimberly always did when she hailed me a cab. The sales girl looked at me. Why wasn't she smiling? Isn't that what these moronic girls get paid for- to smile and be at your beckon call? "Miss, I seemed to have dropped my clothes."

The sales girl glared at me and looked down at the clothes. "Wow, that sucks," she said and walked away.

I stood in complete shock for quite awhile. "Miss!" I shouted after her.

The girl stopped, took a deep breath and turned to me with one of those plastic, obviously fake smiles. "Yes?" she asked in a falsely friendly tone that had an amazing amount of bite to it.

I looked down at my clothes again. "My clothes are still on the floor."

"That's. Nice." She was obviously very angry. She was grinding her teeth and her eyes were popping out a bit. It reminded me of those stress toys that my agent always makes me hold when I didn't get a part. Its eyes also popped out when I squeezed it... Not that I was squeezing the sales girl or anything.

"Listen, I think you should probably pick up those clothes before I have a little chat with you manager." I was trying to be threatening. I'd spent almost twenty-two years in this business. I've been an actor since I was four years old. I think by now I'd know how to be intimidating and threatening.

The girl bit her lip and grudgingly picked up the clothes. She stomped away from me, similarly to how Kimberly had but in a different direction, and dropped my clothes angrily onto the floor in one of the dressing rooms. She turned to me, her face the epitome of anger, and said with a hard edge, "If there's anything else you need." She stopped for a second and glared then added, "Sir," with such a vengeance that I almost flinched. If I wasn't such a trained and objective professional, I might have. But famous people do not cringe from lowly sales girls.

The girl stomped away again and I quickly tried on my clothes in a huff. I couldn't believe that girl! Did she _know_ who I was? I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy! I was Connor on the television series that inspired a phenomenon. I had catch phrases and people asking me for my autograph. I wasn't the kind of man you were rude to. I'd been an actor since I could talk. I was the kind of man that people took pictures of with their cell phones.

I eventually finished trying on my clothes. None of them worked, so I walked out of my fitting room and there was that same girl sitting there looking very bored. I dropped my large stack right there on the small table in front of her. She glared at me again as I walked out empty handed.

I really needed something to wear for my old cast-mate's birthday, so I continued to look through the shop for awhile. That girl was folding some shirts over in a corner and periodically shooting me scathing looks. I quite liked the shirt she was folding so I went over and rifled through the pile she was folding for my size. I pulled out the shirt, wordlessly, and it really wasn't my fault that the whole stack toppled over. I held up the shirt against my body and changed my mind; I needed something that would make my blue eyes pop, so I just laid it back down.

The girl growled and glared at me. "Beautiful day, isn't it?" I asked cheerily. She looked as though she wanted to stab me.

She death-glared me for a couple moments as I smiled cheerily back. "Who do you think you are?" she asked with the kind of tone that implied that she hardly cared who I was.

I was slightly taken aback. She didn't know? I knew she was acting funny. Surely if she had known she wouldn't have been nearly as rude. "I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy!" I replied, filling her in quickly. "I was in the hit TV series 'Boomerang'."

She eyed me, looking very confused. Did she really not know? "What the hell are you talking about?" she asked, managing to ask a question and still sound quite put-out.

"I'm talking about 'Boomerang'! Have you never seen 'Boomerang'?" I asked in shock. This was blasphemous. "It was a television _phenomenon! _I had _catch phrases_ for crying out loud! What kind of freak hasn't heard of 'Boomerang'? Did you grow up under a rock? Were your parents demented or something?"

I should have realized that it would be stupid to go on one of my tirades in the presence of a girl that was in obvious need of some anger management.

But I didn't… so I was rather shocked when she punched me in the face.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Fitzwilliam Darcy: Former Child Star**_

_Chapter Two: This Really Hurts_

"Ow, Ow."

Everyone in L.A. has a slash in their job description. Nurse Bertha's is masochist-slash-nurse. I think it should be important to observe when people's slashes make them into oxymorons… or just plain old morons.

"This really hurts you nasty cow!" I shouted as the woman pressed my nose. It was obviously broken. Trained medical professional my ass!

"I'm beginning to understand why that woman punched you," Nurse Bertha said with a wicked smile. Wicked smiles are very ominous signs when someone has access to your pain threshold.

"She was merely trying to help society," my best friend said from the chair in my little cot area at the hospital. I was a bit put-out that they couldn't give me a private room, or even a room for that matter, and that my best friend, who I'd called in search of moral support, was merely reading a tabloid magazine and ignoring the plight of his companion. Not to mention mocking my distress. "If anything she deserves a medal."

Nurse Bertha laughed. I hardly saw amusement in such a comment. "Oh very funny Nick," I shot sarcastically. I don't think the sarcasm came across right. Have you ever tried to be sarcastic with a broken nose? It's rather difficult- you come out sounding more Porky Pig minus the stutter.

Nick, once again laughed at my expense. Nurse Bertha took liberties by pressing my nose hard once again. Was the woman taping it up, or just trying to break it even more? While she, painfully, finished her "delicate" work, I quickly calculated the odds of me walking out of this without needing a nose job. I was twenty-six… hardly even into my plastic surgery phase!

Nick was whistling as we left my non-private room area. He looked oddly amused. I considered punching him to see if he would still seem amused after that.

"Is that the girl that punched you?" Nick asked pointing to the sales girl that sat on a cot of her own, with one doctor wrapping up her right hand and a cop talking to her and taking notes.

"Yes that's her," I muttered. I winced. Note to self: Don't mutter with a broken nose.

"She's pretty hot. Maybe I should introduce myself." Nick was staring at the girl. He wasn't honestly considering… "Do you think she's as physical in the bedroom?"

I was beginning to understand why people punch other people. Although… There's hardly any justification for sales girl punching me. That was horribly uncalled for. "No," I growled. Man! Was there no way of speaking that wouldn't hurt?

"You know what?" Nick asked, looking as though he'd had a brilliant idea. I'm very familiar with Nick's "brilliant ideas." They hardly ever end well. "You need an assistant, don't you?"

"Yes," I grunted. Once again it came out sounding more like an oink.

"Well there you go." I still didn't get where he was going with this, but he dragged me over to Sales Girl before I could protest. "Hi, we'd just really like to apologize to this young lady about Fitz here's actions and to explain that we wouldn't like to press charges," Nick said. I think having a broken nose has made my brain stop working. How did I let Nick say that whole sentence without stopping him?

"Really?" Sales Girl asked cautiously.

No not really!

"Yes, of course," Nick said with a gracious smile.

"You're not pressing charges?" the officer asked.

"Why would we?" Nick asked and took the officer aside, using all his lawyer talents to sweet-talk the officer.

"I guess I'm sorry too then" Sales Girl said to me while Nick and the officer had a little sidebar about the incident. Sales Girl hardly looked sorry. In fact she looked as though she couldn't care less.

"Sure you are," I drawled… or tried to.

The girl shrugged. "Okay. Well, maybe I'm not."

At least she was upfront about it. And she did have a couple of broken fingers from the looks of it. "Did you get fired?" I asked.

Maybe I sounded a bit more pleased by such an idea than I should have. Sales Girl looked contemptuous again. I guess my pleasure didn't go unnoticed. "Of course I got fired and I'll have a hell of a time trying to get a new job without a reference. Not many places hire employees that like to punch customers," she said, sounding quite sad actually.

"I should hope not!" I said, without thinking. She now looked murderous as well as sad. I felt a bit guilty. Even super famous people are capable of guilt, you know. We stood there for a few moments, the doctor finishing with her hand and explaining that she'd have to keep the cast on for four weeks.

"So you need a job?" I asked, an idea finally coming to me.

Sales Girl nodded.

"Well it's your lucky day. I need an assistant!" I said triumphantly. This would be perfect. Now I could fill the position without having to do interviews with silly girls that only seem to want my autograph. Or at least… they never say no when I offer them one.

Sales Girl laughed. I think she thought I was kidding. She stopped when she noticed that I hadn't laughed as well. "No way!" she shouted, protesting as soon as she realized that I was giving her a job.

This actually almost made _me _laugh. She could pretend all she wanted… I bet you anything she secretly really wanted this job. Who wouldn't? "Listen, I hate to do this, but my lawyer is over there negotiating for your freedom. You could be charged with battery, if he doesn't. Now, you wouldn't want me to tell him to stop, would you?"

Sales Girl's mouth dropped when she realized that I was blackmailing her. She must be new to L.A. if she was that shocked. Eventually her shoulder slumped in defeat and I knew I was victorious. I had a new personal assistant, thank God! I was sure I'd have to commit such atrocities like… making my _own_ cup of coffee. "Great!" I smiled, but it hurt my nose, and extended my hand to her. "I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy, your new boss."

Sales Girl took it grudgingly. "Keily Konners. Your new personal slave."

* * *

_I've gotten some sweet reviews. That rocks! You guys were right... Sales Girl is our Lizzy. Her name is Keily and she just happens to also be Fitz's new PA. I picture Nick as our Rchard Fitzwillaim... but he'll play a much bigger role. There will be a Wikham-like character... except he's not really a jerk. I don't see a Jane or Charlie ever appearing... but I was considering a Collins and Charolette. I'm trying to keep this short so I don't want to add every available plot._

_This is a lighthearted thing here peeps. I don't care if it's logical or realistic. It's meant to be kind of different. I gave Darcy a bit of a new spin... he's somewhat deluded. He's a child star... give the guy a break! It wasn't really blackmail. She probably would have taken the job anyway... maybe._

_Haha._

_Dee, I'm quite glad you liked it. You know what I like? Twenty Months. You know what I really, really want? ...Besides a life supply of markers... is an update of Twenty Months. Please!!! I am literally begging you!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry it's been so long since I've updated this. I've been busy… with school and other stories. I have so damn many things to do. But tonight I thought that Fitzie could take precedence over Calc homework. Everyone deserves a break right?_

_Ok… Keily and Fitz… hmmm…_

_**Fitzwilliam Darcy: Former Child Star**_

_Chapter Three: Where's the Pulp?!_

"Fitzwilliam Darcy, I quit!"

"You can't quit," I felt myself protesting despite my better instincts. Keily, or Scary Sales Girl (SSG) shook her head and glared. "It's only your first day!"

SSG pretended like she hadn't heard that last comment. "You're an obnoxious, conceited little man and I hate you," she growled.

I scowled. I'm not little, am I? I suddenly felt very self-conscious. But then I remembered that I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy… what do I have to be nervous about? I'm awesome. "You can't quit."

"I'll damn well quit if I damn well please," she replied, her jaw set in determination, her eyes alight with anger.

"Fine. But that would only make you a quitter."

"Hence the action of quitting," she replied. Oh, she thought she was _so _funny. Hardy-har-har. We got a real comedian on our hands here people!

"I'll let you quit," I replied, trying to outsmart her, "if you can give me one good reason why you should leave."

"You'll _let me _quit?" SSG was slightly taken-aback. She seemed to think that I was in no position to barter. Well, I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy! I hold plenty of sway in this dog-eat-dog town of LA. "Plus," she sighed after a few long minutes of hard staring, "I just gave you a reason. You are an obnoxious, conceited little man. And I hate you," she tacked on as an afterthought.

"That's merely an opinion," I replied nonchalantly. Yeah, an opinion that she seems to be the only person that supports. "I need a hard, tangible fact for why you want to quit."

She was at a loss. There were a mere two reasons for why she couldn't come up with anything. One: She's secretly loves me as much as the rest of the world does and she was actually very star-struck by her new job as my personal assistant; or two: I am such a benevolent boss that, since her first day of working with me… about ten minutes ago, she hasn't had anything particularly difficult to accomplish. That was about to change. I was itching for some pulp-less orange juice… the thing is that the kind with the pulp tastes batter than the pulp-less so I was going to request, quite lovingly, that she filter the pulp out of the kind with pulp.

What? …Kimberly used to do it.

"So, since we've officially established that you are not quitting, I have a request."

Keily rolled her eyes and sighed. "What are you going to make me do? It better not be something ridiculous like filter all the pulp out of your orange juice."

I blushed and averted my eyes. "Um…" I coughed. "Of course! That's ridiculous! Why would I ask such a demanding request of my _paid _assistant?"

Keily rolled her eyes and ignored my pointed discomfort.

"Um…" Hmm. Time to make things up. I looked around my apartment for something that Keily could do. Hmm… difficult. "I need you to…" My eyes alit on a picture of me, Nick and a few of our other friends. Ah-ha! "I need you to call the guys and schedule a poker night."

Keily's lips went crooked in doubt and hesitation. "You want me to call all your friends for you?"

I nodded. She sighed again. Getting Keily to do anything was like pulling teeth.

"What time?"

I looked at my watch. "How about now?"

She glared. "I meant, what time do you want them to come over?"

"Oh." My cheeks prickled in embarrassment. "Er… how about tomorrow night at like… nine?" It was pretty obvious that I was making this up as I went. Amazing actor or not, I don't think Keily was fooled.

"And who am I inviting?"

"I told you. Nick and the guys."

"Who are 'the guys'?" she asked me accusingly. What's with the third degree?

"You know. _The guys._"

"No. I'm afraid I don't know." She was smirking. I hated the way she seemed to be enjoying this so thoroughly. I wanted to yell at her… but then I was scared she'd quit on me again.

"Just call Nick." I groaned. Nothing with this girl was going to be easy. I suddenly thought it would be best if she did just quit. You know… my nose still kind of hurts. You know… like when I get the sniffles. And when I sneeze. "He'll tell you who else you should invite."

"Call Nick," she repeated. "Got it."

I grabbed a magazine off my coffee table and flipped through it. Keily coughed. "Yes?" I asked, looking up at her from an article about Joey Fatone's return to stardom.

"Is there anything else you want?" she asked smiling mischievously. She seemed to know something I didn't. I didn't have time for these things. I had important literature to read.

"No. You can go," I replied waving her off with one hand and flipping the page to the second half of the article. You know Joey Fatone's daughter is absolutely adorable. That's probably why he's famous again. Maybe I should have kids. Adoption maybe? I'll discuss it with my agent.

Keily stomped out of my lofty, white living room and into my lofty, white kitchen. I finished the article with a sigh. Joey Fatone had just what I needed: a comeback.

"What's wrong Sunshine?"

I looked up. Keily was standing over me with a freaky smile across her face. "Did you call Nick?"

Keily nodded. "Of course I did. Did you enjoy your heart-to-heart interview about Joey Fatone?"

I hid that magazine. How did she know that's what I was reading?

"If you still want to quit that's fine wi-" I began, biting angry and prepared to get rid of her; as much of a hassle as it would have been to find a new assistant, it seemed even more impossible to try to put up with this girl.

"Here." Keily held out her hand, and there, with her fingers wrapped tightly around it, was a glass of orange juice. I looked at it, briefly wondering where it had come from, but my resolve and fear of poisoning gave way to the mouthwatering vibrant orange. I took a sip.

Amazing! She'd filtered out the pulp.


	4. Chapter 4

_It's been awhile, I suppose, but I was just thinking about this story and I had to write something for it. I kind of miss it. It's a fun one._

_Did everyone have a good Turkey Day? I forgot to eat turkey. Yeah, I'm that dumb._

_Ok. Enjoy Fitzie and his up-coming break down. It was only a matter of time…_

_I hope you don't hate me too much for taking so long to update. Ack!

* * *

_

_**Fitzwilliam Darcy: Former Child Star**_

_Chapter Four: VH1, Save the Has-Been Celebrity_

I had a meeting with a rep from VH1 on a Friday about a month after Keily started working for me. Needless to say I was excited. Perhaps they wanted to make an award-winning documentary about my life. Or possibly some sort of VH1 original move. (They make those, don't they?)

Honestly, I'd have been excited about almost anything. Maybe they wanted me to host a countdown series about the cutest TV stars of the mid-80's to early 90's. Naturally my name would come to mind. Connor was more than just an adorable, and beautifully portrayed, character. He was an icon. I represented television for almost an entire decade.

Icon or not, it had been… well quite awhile since I'd done anything to put me in the limelight. Well, except that one toothpaste ad, but that hardly counts. But, I refused to be desperate. Icons don't have "desperate" as an option. My second big-break was just around the corner. I was going to be the next Patrick Dempsey… the second time around.

Keily handed me the daily Star, a cup of coffee, with three sweet 'n lows and a teaspoon of cream, and tapped her well programmed watch. "We're going to be late," she hummed, her voice lighter than she looked. She was exhausted. I don't see why. Plenty of people wake up at six in the morning to walk their boss's neighbor's dog so that it will stop barking and their boss can get his beauty sleep for the big meeting he had the next day.

I glared at her as she stood with her back holding open my apartment door and her arms loaded down with my jacket, in case it was chilly in the studio, and the giant purse she'd started carrying around with all her emergency supplies, which included but was not limited to: wet naps, binoculars, autograph books, a dozen headshots, three bottles of water, one bottle of Pellegrino water, Madonna's signed book on kabala, my lucky towel that was given to me by Tom Cruise—before he went crazy, and the entire first season of Boomerang, which I'd forced Keily to watch just two days ago.

She rolled her eyes as I breezed past her and out the door, and followed in my wake. As we waited for the elevator I observed her in the shiny gold doors. She looked a mess. She had horrible dark circles under her eyes, her ponytail was tilted slightly to the side and she was hunched over slightly from the weight of her bag. I pierced my lips as her eyes met mine in the shiny doors. "You should really do something about your eyes. You look absolutely horrible."

Her lips tightened and her eyes darkened. For some odd reason she kept doing that whenever I'd say something. I still hadn't figured out what it meant.

Before she could say anything, and I could tell she was about to, the elevator doors "dinged" and slid open. We both entered and I patiently tapped my foot and stared at the lobby number on the button pad. Keily eventually rolled her eyes, carefully unloaded her stack of things I made her carry and pressed the lobby button. As she piled everything back onto her pile with care, I shoved my empty hands into my pockets to protect them from unwanted germs. The last thing I needed before my big comeback was some sort of nasty head-cold that made me all icky and snotty.

After Keily carefully hailed me a cab on the street outside my apartment then wiped down the seat with a wet-nap to protect me from the common-folk, I contemplated my VH1 interview. What do you think they wanted? Maybe they were picking up the rights to Boomerang and wanted me to do some comical promos for the show. Or possibly they wanted to get the cast back together to film some reunion episodes.

When we got to the studio, I gave the security guard my name and spent about fifteen minutes trying to explain to Keily that we didn't need a map to find the rep's office because someone would obviously come and lead us where we needed to go. After another three minutes, she grabbed the map and started wandering through the studio without me. I had to run to catch up with her. She's lucky I didn't get winded, or, even worse, sweaty.

We managed to get to the rep's office with a total of 17 seconds to spare. I made Keily count.

"Ah! Mr. Darcy!" He was a portly man with one of those booming voices. He reminded me somewhat of Santa Clause. I wondered how he'd managed to get a position so high up for VH1. I don't suppose he's one of those people that slept his way to the top. Or at least I hope he wasn't.

I stood up quickly and shook the man's hand firmly. I'd read in "Loving Yourself, and Your Job Too" that you should always start off any kind of business meeting with a firm handshake. I'd also learned that smoothie's are an excellent way to kick off your morning right; which explained why Keily had strawberry juice on the collar of her white oxford.

The portly man, a Mr. Clip or Clive or something or other, led me into his square and boxy office. This wasn't a "big-time" office. This was a "low ring on the totem pole" office. I knew more than my share about show business and I knew immediately that this was a bad sign.

"So," the portly man hiccoughed. He was probably drunk. "I suppose you've figured out by now why we asked to meet with you."

He'd spoke in the plural first-person form, but I noticed that there was no one else around. Perhaps he was schizophrenic as well. "No," I said shaking my head and trying not to show how disappointed I was about this meeting already. It hardly seemed likely that they'd pitch my documentary special in a room about as big as the average person's closet. "I have no clue why I'm here."

The portly man bellowed the kind of barking laughter that makes you feel as though you're telling jokes to a dog. I tried not to wince as his spittle sprinkled across my face. "I suppose you've heard about our new push for what we're calling 'Celebreality'?"

I nodded slowly and politely wiped my face.

"Well, I don't know if you've heard of a little show called"— he paused for dramatic effect –"The Surreal Life, but we were wondering if you'd like to appear on our fourth and upcoming season."

I winced. This couldn't be all! I was supposed to host my own countdown, not appear in a reality TV show full of washed-up, drugged-up, absolutely cracking insane has-beens. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy for crying out loud!

I swallowed hard as the portly man continued to prattle on. Eventually I began to tune him out when he started talking about the undeniable success of Flavor Flav and sharing a house with the girl from "Adventures in Babysitting". This was not how it was supposed to be.

"And we start filming on the 28th of October and you guys would move in on the 29th and I really think you'd enjoy the cast we have lined up for this season. Sure it's severely lacking without a China Doll, but I think it'll maintain the ratings of season three."

I took a single deep breath. "Oh yeah, I saw that episode where she pushed that guy from the Brady Bunch into the pool," I remarked morosely. This was it. This was what I was going to be reduced to. Former Americas Next Top Models and dried up wrestlers. Were my days of stardom really over? I suppose this is what "rock bottom" felt like.

"Do you mind," I gasped, tripping over my words in my own depression, "if I think about it for a couple of days?"

The portly man checked his watch. "I can give you until two o'clock," he replied. How sad was that? This portly man would only give me four hours to think over the most demeaning proposition of my life. I needed to get out of that tiny, cluttered office before I passed out. Why were the walls suddenly spinning?

I sprinted out of the room, looking for Keily to give me my anti-nausea medicine from her giant purse, only to find her missing from the waiting room. I asked the receptionist who pointed out the door and said she'd gone over to find the vending machines in the next building over. I rushed out of that building as well with the portly fellow yelling for me to call by two as I left the building.

I was halfway to the next building when suddenly my lungs compressed and the sad state of my life hit me over the head. My eyes rolled into the back of my head and I fell, face-forward, onto the hard asphalt parking lot.

When I opened my eyes two people were hopping out of a nearby golf cart and rushing over to me. The man reached out his hand and helped my unsteadily to my feet as the woman rummaged through her unnaturally large purse until she found what she was looking for a force-fed me some pills. In a moment I was feeling wobbly, but well enough that I could see the people before me. One was Keily, holding out one of her emergency bottles of water and her bottle of Dramamine, and the other was a blonde guy, with a tight gray t-shirt and spiky hair, who was still holding me steady.

"You alright there Mr. Darcy?" he asked me with one of those sickeningly "boy next door" grins, complete with dimples. I briefly wondered how he knew my name, then I remembered that he'd probably spent the last half-hour, that I'd spent in that closet, wondering around the studio with Keily.

"Who-who are you?" I asked shakily.

Then he gave me another one of those award-winning dazzling white smiles. "Aaron Greene. Representing Matt Damon."

And I fainted again.


End file.
